Charlotte Wührer

If you had to throw one from a parachute, it wouldn’t be a hard call. Off-white ink-stained trainers or blacker than your soul is black doc martens. Not the boots but ankle-knuckle blistering low-rise, better in shoes than in jeans or bread loaves or meringue.

It always is a little about food. After I buy them will come the consumer high then the crash and my sister suggests scones. They rise only a little in the oven but the sugar buzz is like swifts on an evening before a clear baby blue morning where the lid of the sky is blown right off by sun. And it happens.

Across the way they sell black dungarees. The combination is the bomb. Yellow-stitched rubber-soled lanolin-beeswax-coconut-oil polished midnight leather. Naked ankles. Ready to paint and one strap off the shoulder. Look: (wannabe) artist/writer, taller than most Berlin days but smaller than going out in Stoke nights, up Hanley duck, dropped haitches and vodka coke. Don’t they come from the workers? E asks, didn’t they wear them first?